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He knelt beside her, taking the small brush she offered. “Sure thing. What are we painting?”
“A sunflower!” Her excitement was infectious.
He painted alongside her, and I watched as his guard fell away, piece by piece. His laughter was genuine, unburdened by any facade of power or prestige.
Later that day, as we cleaned brushes in silence, I felt an ache in my chest—a confusing mix of warmth and caution. “You didn’t have to come here,” I said finally.
“I wanted to see you,” Cass responded without looking up from rinsing a roller.
I pressed my lips together, unsure how to process his sincerity. The air grew heavy between us as we finished cleaning.
“Thank you for your help today,” I muttered as he walked towards the door.
Cass paused and turned back slightly. “Mila,” he began, “there’s more to this than just… you know.”
I nodded slowly, feeling the weight of his words settle over me like a blanket of uncertainty. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving me alone with my thoughts and a freshly painted wall that held promises of hope.
My heart battled my head as I pondered over everything—the community center that needed saving, Cassius Portman’s unexpected layers, and the undeniable pull between us that complicated everything else.
Chapter Nineteen
Mila
The sunlight crept through the curtains, dust motes dancing in the lazy afternoon beams. Dad’s room smelled faintly of medicine and worn pages from the old books stacked on his nightstand. With Brenda out for the day, the house held a rare stillness, a peacefulness that seemed to settle over everything like a gentle sigh.
“Dad, remember when we used to have those Sunday picnics in the backyard?” I asked, sitting beside him on the bed. “Just you, Mom, Rachel, Chad, and me.”
His eyes sparkled with the memory. “Of course, pumpkin. Your mother made the best potato salad in the world.”
I laughed. “Yeah, and you always tried to sneak an extra cookie when you thought no one was looking.”
He chuckled, a warm sound. “Guilty as charged.”
We shared a comfortable silence before I found the courage to voice what had been weighing on my heart.
“Dad,” I started tentatively, “have you ever thought about… well, about life without Brenda?”
He turned his head to look at me, his expression unreadable for a moment. “Mila, what are you getting at?”
I took a deep breath. “It’s just—she’s hardly here for you. She’s not… she’s not Mom. And I’m worried that she’s more of a burden than help.” The words tumbled out in a rush.
Dad sighed deeply, his hand finding mine and squeezing it gently. “I know she’s not your mother,” he said softly. “And I know she can be… distant. But Mila, she’s my wife.”
“But Dad,” I pressed on, feeling my resolve harden. “She doesn’t care for us like you think she does. She married you thinking there was money—”
He cut me off with a raised hand. “I’m aware of why Brenda married me,” he said quietly but firmly.
“Then why keep her around? Why not let her go and just… let us take care of each other?” I couldn’t mask the desperation in my voice.
Dad’s eyes held mine with an intensity that bore his love and concern. “Because I need to know that there’s someone here for you and your siblings when I’m gone.”
The resignation in his voice stung like salt in an open wound. It wasn’t fair—he deserved so much better than resigned acceptance.
“Dad,” I whispered, fighting back tears. “You don’t have to worry about us—we’ll stick together.”
He smiled weakly, his grip on my hand tightening just a bit more. “That’s my brave girl,” he murmured. “But promise me something—keep an open heart towards Brenda.”
It was one of those moments where love battled logic—where I wanted to scream at the injustice but knew that arguing would only cause him pain.
